


Taking the Edge Off

by IlanaNight



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IlanaNight/pseuds/IlanaNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot Alderson hated being touched. It made his skin itch, made his thoughts race in a way that scared him and left him reeling without any sense of control.</p><p>Elliot Alderson wanted, more than anything he could ever remember wanting, to be touched by Tyrell Wellick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Edge Off

**Author's Note:**

> kelsey and i fell into tyrelliot hell this weekend and we're here to stay. so here's my contribution ( or the beginning anyway ). this chapter/intro is all from Elliot's POV but I'll probably be switching between chapters from time to time~

Elliot always took a smoke when they went out for walks.

 

Their hands were linked at the fingers, Elliot’s own slim digits twitching occasionally in Tyrell’s, tensing and relaxing. It was clear that the tech was uncomfortable with the physical contact, the tendons in his wrists jumping, and more than once he had moved to pull his hand away before clenching his jaw and grasping Tyrell’s fingers tighter.

 

The cigarette was held like a lifeline in Elliot’s other hand, brought up to his mouth for long drags, breaths of air while the tech drowned in the sensation of human contact. He was careful to turn his head away, Tyrell hated the smell of cigarette smoke, especially when it lingered on his clothes, and the tech hated seeing that little displeased frown cross the taller man’s face.

 

It did little to help the fact that his lips surely tasted of tobacco and ash when Tyrell placed the softest of kisses to them before taking his leave, but at least the lingering nicotine in his lungs and his veins took the edge off of Elliot’s anxiety, stopped him from biting his lips or rubbing at them until the memory of the sensation was marred with pain.

 

Elliot Alderson hated being touched. It made his skin itch, made his thoughts race in a way that scared him and left him reeling without any sense of control.

 

Elliot Alderson wanted, more than anything he could ever remember wanting, to be touched by Tyrell Wellick.

 

It was an insidious sort of wanting, a yearning that stemmed from somewhere deep in his core, a black hole that ate at his insides. It was an addiction, a vice that he should have never been exposed to in the first place. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t quell the urges that washed over him like waves.

 

His memory was spotty at best, but there were some things he remembered as vividly as if they had happened just yesterday. Tyrell’s touch was quickly becoming one of those things.

 

The exec’s hand on his shoulder, lingering more than a simple pat, applying a bit more pressure, fingers tracing idly across his shirt. That same hand tracing his cheekbone down to his jaw before cupping his cheek, their faces mere inches apart.

 

And those had been _before_ this whole arrangement fell into place. The touches now were much more intimate, much more personal, much more dangerous.

 

Each and every one of them made Elliot want to tear his own skin off.

 

It was the world’s worst juxtaposition, to simultaneously yearn for something and be repulsed by it. His own mind was betraying him, tempting him with what he wanted most and forcing him to push it all away.

 

Determined to beat his mind at its own game, Elliot had begun looking for ways around the aversion.

 

Cigarettes were an easy choice. He already used them fairly often, the nicotine took the edge off of minor panics, staved off the voices and the phantom sensations until he could be alone with his demons. If he smoked a bit more often when he was out with Tyrell, or when the older man was in his apartment, no one had to be any the wiser.

 

With the smoke still settling in his lungs, the faintest buzz that came along with it quieting the voices in his head, Elliot could lace his fingers with Tyrell’s and flash the taller man a small smile as they walked through the pitifully small park near his apartment. It was no Central Park, no Upper East Side, but it was where Elliot was comfortable, and thus it was where they walked.

 

Tyrell was, for all of his stone cold facades and controlled expressions, very willing to compromise if it kept Elliot comfortable.

 

Perhaps that was part of why Elliot wanted this to work out so badly. With everyone else, even with Shayla, he’d felt as if he was _supposed_ to want it. Pressured or obligated or expected to have the same reaction everyone else did. And always left regretting some aspect of it come morning.

 

With Tyrell, there was none of that pressure. Elliot was certain that the taller man knew how his breath caught when ice blue eyes met hazel green, how his pupils dilated minutely and a shiver ran down his spine when Tyrell leant over to whisper in his ear, low and intimate. Elliot knew that Tyrell was more than aware of the desire he sparked in the tech’s core, but the older man made no move to pressure him into anything.

 

Every touch was on Elliot’s terms, and that should have been enough.

 

But once the nicotine stopped humming in his veins, once the novelty of human contact wore off, the itching sensation came back in full force. It started from the point of contact and worked its way across his body until every inch of his skin felt foreign, like it needed to be removed and expunged before he could be free.

 

Usually, by this time, Tyrell had work to return to, or a family to go home to, or some other reason to leave for the night, and Elliot was left to curl up in his corner and scratch at his skin in peace.

 

He started in the corner and worked his way to the shower, sitting under the searing hot water for as long as it lasted, pelting down on the fresh scratch marks his own blunt nails had left on the skin. It burned and stung and had him hissing, mouth drawn down in a grimace, but at least it quieted the voices that screamed out in the back of his head.

 

His skin was his again.

 

And when the hot water was all gone, Elliot turned off the shower and sunk back down to the tiled floor, his head in his hands as sobs wracked his slender form. The scratches on his hands and arms were raised welts now, deep enough that they’d still be there come morning.

 

Deep enough that Tyrell would notice, if the older man chose to visit in the next few days.

 

Tyrell knew of Elliot’s aversion to touch, of course. It was hard not to know, with how often Elliot had flinched when they’d first started this whole affair, before he’d decided to rely on taking a hit to stifle the reactions. But the last thing Elliot wanted was for Tyrell to stop touching him, to stop initiating contact. Because _god,_ in the moment, it felt like heaven. It felt warm, it felt right, it felt _safe._

 

Safe was an unfamiliar concept to Elliot Alderson, but now that he'd been introduced to it, he never wanted to lose it. Never wanted to give it up for any reason, even his own safety net, his own maze.

 

And so Elliot was doing everything in his power to maintain that contact, to encourage it even. He rested his head on Tyrell’s shoulder while they sat on the couch and watched mindless shows, more engrossed in making fun than in the plot itself. He twined their fingers together. He wrapped his arms around Tyrell’s waist and hugged the taller man close, slotting his head under the other’s chin.

 

But no matter what he tried, no matter how often he exposed himself to touch, no matter how much he _loved_ being held and touched, he always ended up here.

 

Exhausted and too disconnected to continue crying, Elliot wandered out of his bathroom in a daze, mind half in reality and half submerged in a delusion. An idle part of his brain noted that some of the scrapes on his hands really could use bandaging, but he was in no fit state to be doing that now. Besides, it would only draw more attention to them.

 

A feeling of numbness had replaced the twitching, his mind separated from his body as he lied down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Some part of him hated this, hated that he had to remove himself so fully to cope, but anything was better than wanting to tear his skin off in pieces.

 

He’d never wanted to be normal. Not for years, not since before he could remember. But _god_ did he want it now. God how he wanted to be able to hold someone, to be held by someone, without this _hell_ afterwards.

 

Hazy hazel eyes wandered over to the pill bottle on his bedside table with a flicker of thought, a dark and dangerous thought, but one that caught in his mind and stayed there, taking root and giving birth to a precarious plan.

 

Perhaps he could be normal, if only in short intervals.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to hit me up on tumblr~ ilananight.tumblr.com


End file.
